


‘till it begins

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Carney Clint, Circus, Inktober 2019, Multi, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20852108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: It starts, like many of Bucky’s worst days, with a ring.





	1. Rings

**Author's Note:**

> i’m trying this inktober thing so... lets see

Day 1 - Ring

It starts, like many of Bucky’s worst days, with a ring. Only this one isn’t a plastic toy from a too skinny boy, or two copper bands stealing away his sisters, or silver with a gleaming stones stealing away the too skinny boy who grew up. It’s not even leather rings binding his wrist, keeping him captive and stealing his memories.

This ring, made up of bits of painted plywood and filled with red clay and hay, is almost nice, and Bucky already does not trust it. Rings, mushroom or metal or leather or wood, he’s learned, always spell disaster for him. Already he can taste that strange, sour-sweet-metal in the air of poisoned magic. He nudges Steve, nudges Tony, tries to ask, “Can’t you taste it?” 

But his voice is rough and they are in love and Bucky is the shadow no one wishes to babysit.

He watches the show, twitchy and uncertain, metal fist clenched inside his coat. He watches the seductive ladies on their horses, the devious clowns with their not-tricks. The Master with his harsh eyes, every bit as assessing as Bucky’s own. 

Steve pats his shoulder. “You’re okay, Bucky. You’re  _ better. _ ” 

And ain’t that the shit, that his nerves are all cracked up to a few mental shortouts, and not the  _ energy _ bursting from this fucking place.

Tony eyes him, wary but kind. Bucky clenches his fist and he  _ hates _ Tony. He loves Tony. Tony is good for Steve, and Bucky loves Steve enough to love anyone who is good for him. 

“Popcorn?” Tony asks gently. Bucky shakes his head, and then gets two sad sets of eyes.

He musters up a few words, enough to ask, “But maybe a pop?”

Two sunshine grins, and they go off together,

They go off, hand in hand, and Bucky is already forgotten. It’s okay though, this is his chance to slink off, to disappear into the shadows and make his apologies later. He is about to escape, already half up and mumbling his sorries to the people he is in the way of, when the air shifts. He pauses, knees bent awkwardly, to stare at the dimming lights. His skin itches with an anticipation he already hates. A single spotlight in the center of the ring, but no one is there. 

Purple smoke lazily flickers through the tent, sweet smelling like lilacs and spring and… something Bucky can’t name. Something he doubts he’s ever smelled. 

A man appears in the empty space, sudden and out of nowhere. Large shoulders and narrow hips and well muscled, even from this distance. His hair gleams like thinned gold. 

Bucky sits slowly, heavily.  _ Dazed, _ he thinks. Entranced. 

In the center of the ring the man looks up and then his gaze stops. It’s impossible, even for Bucky to actually know where he’s looking, but Bucky can  _ feel _ the pale gaze. It feels, Bucky pauses, head dizzy and eyes foggy, the gaze feels  _ apologetic _ and sad and he doesn’t understand. But he wants to. And he wants to tell this performer, in his glitzy black costume that “It’s okay. We get better.”

He doesn’t know why, but it stops mattering, because the noise disappear and the smoke crowds Bucky like a thick blanket and the world goes absolutely blank, save for the sweetsourmetal purple and the fair haired man with sad, apologetic eyes. 


	2. Mindless

Bucky wakes all wrong. His mouth is dry, his ears ring silent. His mind-

He doesn’t scream. 

He was trained not to scream and he hasn’t forgotten that, even hear in this world that taste like soursweet lilacs. 

Bucky asses, slow, lazy,  _ empty _ . 

He’s lying on a cot. Not military, well padded. The pillow below his head smells musky, heady. Doesn’t fit with the purple smell. 

He blinks, slow and lazy. Brooklyn. Before the war, when the smoke was green and he couldn’t do it with Steve. 

_ Steve _ . 

His heart clenches, restarts, flutters. Can’t remember why. Bite the cheek against the panic.  _ Panic is not allowed _ .

Breath in through the nose. Breath out slow. Empty the mind. 

Bucky closes his eyes, inhales purple and lets himself go limp. 

Somewhere, far in the recess of who he is, he knows he should be worried about how  _ easy _ it is to lose himself this way. 

Whispers like song echo about him, breaking the silent ringing but they’re meaningless. Empty. Wrong in their tenderness. 

Hands, big and warm and callous stroke his hair. A thumb traces over his lips, salty.

Sweat and tears, a flavor so familiar Bucky unwillingly opens his eyes. 

Blue, like an old shirt stare at him. He reaches up, hands catching in flaxen curls. Those eye; so young and so sad. 

It’s wrong, and Bucky desperately needs to  _ Wake Up _ .

There are fingers stroking his brow, his lashes. He closes his eyes. “Please, wake up. Be the one.”

He’s trying, honest he is. But his body is so heavy and his heart so tired and his mind so empty. 

Fingers on his jaw, down the line of his neck, over mangled flesh. 

Bucky sits up with a snarl, metal hand gripping human bones too tight and he half wonders if foam drips from his teeth but he doesn’t care. 

The Asset is awake and even bluefade eyes made of sorrow cannot stop him. 

Until the eyes close and their owner sighs, something like relief breaking through the mindless haze.

It takes effort, so much effort it hurts, to unclenches his weapon-fingers. “Water,” he croaks. 

Like a marionette the man moves, jerky and uncertain. He grabs a clay cup and hands it to Bucky who drinks, uncaring of the dust at the bottom. 

“Where,” he demands. 

Bright red lips, not blood or wine stained, but holly-berry brushed curl over sharp teeth. “That’s what you’re here to help me find out,” and the voice. God, the smoker’s husk, honey sweet,  _ musical _ voice breaks Bucky’s heart in ways he thought no longer possible. 

“Sleep,” he is told. The air turns purple and he can feel his throat closing, his muscles clenching, but like the ice he has no control. He drifts, mindless, heavy, unsure. 


	3. Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 -Bait

When Bucky wakes again all he can smell is musk, heady and bitter. 

“Good, you’re up,” a voice says. 

He reaches out, fingers clenching, and earns a chuckle. “No dice, murder boy. I caught that last time and my hands still in a splint.” 

Blue eyes, like the quilt locked in an aspen wood box somewhere. A hand wrapped in bandages, fingers purple. “Can’t perform and ain’t that a bitch. Cut my rations ‘cause of your punk ass.”

“Sound different,” Bucky says. “Water.”

A thick finger waves in his face and Bucky catches it with his human hand. He sniffs, but there is no soursweet lilac this time. 

Blue eyes go dark, like right before night falls. “You gotta earn it this time pal. No more Nice Clint.” 

Bucky squeezes the hand caught in between hsi fleshy fingers tighter, tight enough to feel the bones begin to shift. Clint whines beneath his grip. “Aw man, c’mon. Super strength?” 

Bucky lets go. “Water,” he demands again. 

Clint snaps his teeth at him, “Yeah, alright. Bait might as well be well fed anyway.” 

Bucky perks at that, sitting up a little straighter. “Bait,” he says low, gravelly. Steve calls it  _ scary _ . Tony calls it  _ sexy _ .

Bucky calls it  _ damaged _ . Years of screaming and tubes and smoke he chose. “Bait.”

Clint snaps his teeth again. “Don’t you know how to use punctuation in your voice?” He stands, turns his back to Bucky and immediately falls face first. “Aw fuck.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Water is that way. No food. Ration cuts ‘n all.” Clint sighs. “Dick face.”

Bucky grunts. “Explain bait,” he demands again. But he stands, steps over Clint who hasn’t bothered to stand, and makes his way to a basin. He glares down at the golden man. “Bathing water?” 

“All I got buckaroo.” 

Bucky flinches at the name, but he grabs a clay cup and sighs. He’s definitely drunk worse, but at least in war it was mostly blood and silt in the water. Doesn’t taste terrible, just a little… dusty with clay in it. 

Then he sits, feet planted and knees up. “The fuck are my shoes?” 

Clint snorts and finally rights himself. “Not concerned about the rest of your clothing?”

Bucky glances down and growls, reaching for the knives that aren’t there. “I can kill you with this,” he says, wiggling metal fingers. 

Clint waves his purple, bandage wrapped hand. “Yeah. I know. But you won’t.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Because you, James Buchanan Barnes, want to  _ know _ , why you’re here. How I know your name. You, love, want to  _ remember _ .”

“And what do you want?” Bucky asks furious. 

Clint’s eyes, blue like dusted memories, go sad. “To come home, darlin’.”

There’s a noise outside the tent they’re in and Bucky crouches ready to attack, but Clint lets his face empty and raises his hands. Bucky can’t see suddenly, can’t breath for the overwhelming haze of dark, flowery smoke. 

“‘M sorry, love,” he hears Clint murmur. 

Bucky wants to ask  _ what for _ , but his body feels numb, his mind wanders, drifts, even as he can feel himself being lifted, carried through  _ heat _ . He’s really starting to hate lilacs. 


	4. Freeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4 - Freeze

Bucky is awake long before his would-be captors can even think to check him, listening. He can’t open his eyes, not yet. But he can listen, and he can feel the ungodly heat in the air, and he can asses. These morons didn’t even bind him, but they’ve stripped him to his boxers. 

He’s wearing nice boxers, soft gunmetal things that Steven and Tony bought him. He sighs, internally, because they were  _ nice _ , and he has no idea of their current condition.

Unimportant. 

He’s been left sitting cross legged against a wall that feels like cheap wood covered in cheaper cloth.

He’s barefoot, sweating, and he is  _ angry _ .

The air still smells vaguely of soursweet lilac, he can taste it on his tongue.

Surprisingly, he can also feel his metal arm hanging at his side, fully functional.

_ Amatures. _

Well,  _ amateur _ .

“Don’t even flinch,” a voice says in his ear.

Bucky stiffens, holds his breath. He lets it out slowly, swallows, then frowns. There’s a knife pressed to his throat, and he slits his eyes open, frowning. “Thats mine. Bitch.”

“Freeze,” Clint hisses. “I said don’t  _ move. _ ”

“You didn’t say don’t speak,” Bucky reminds him. He hurts, deep in his bones, the scent of Clint all around him and overwhelming. 

Clint curses under his breath and the knife trembles a little. Bucky glances down. “Your hand is mostly healed.”

Clint pushes the knife against Bucky’s throat. “Freeze, shut up, follow me.” He plants a hand on Bucky’s hip and tugs gently.

Bucky remains sitting. Clint pulls harder, nails digging against the bone. 

Bucky plants his heels into the dirt and feels Clint give up. 

“Listen, buttercup. I get it. you don’t remember me. But if you stay here any longer, you  _ stay  _ here forever. Missions a bust. I’m stuck, forgotten, but I think,” Clint pauses.

He lets out a noise that Bucky feels all the way beneath his bones and his muscles and his organs. It’s… it’s sad. Desperate. 

“You can’t stay, Bucky,” Clint tells him. “Let me do this much. I thought-“

Something salty hits Bucky’s shoulder. He doesn’t know why, but he says, “Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

This time, he feels the faintest rush of air as something, a door slides open. He turns, and Clint is already shuffling through a dark hallway, so Bucky gets a nice look at a spandex clad ass. 

“I can feel you looking, Buck. Get a move on.”

Before Bucky can answer, another one of his  _ own goddamned knives  _ is at his throat. “Freeze, asshole.”

Bucky grabs the hand, twist until he hears the sickening crunch and puts the knife between his teeth. He slaps Clints ass to get him moving. “Getting real tired of people telling me to freeze,” he grumbles.

Clint laughs and it’s the most goddamned musical noise ever, low and rumbly and beautiful. 

Bucky wants him to keep doing it forever, because the noise feels familiar. Feels like home, and safe, in a way not even Steve and Tony and the Tower feel like.

“How do I know you?” Bucky demands. 

“Keep moving,” Clint answers. 

Bucky whips his metal arm forward, fingers closing tight around the bone, squeezing. Clint hisses, pulls, but Bucky squeezes tighter. 

“Jesus, babe. And here I thought you weren’t kinky.” 

“Answer me.”

Clint turns as much as the narrow hallway allows. Bucky can’t see his eyes, only the slope of his nose, but he senses the pain. “When we are safe, my love.”

Bucky is quiet for a long time, and then he releases him. Clint lets out a noise of relief, mingled with… something, and moves forward. 


	5. Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Build

They crawl forward slowly, Clint easily navigating the strange tunnel structure. 

“You’ve done this. Before,” Bucky says. 

Clint shrugs in answer anyway. “A time or two.”

“Then why’d you let them grab me?” He huffs out. It’s only because he’s looking for it that he sees the minute flinch Clint gives. 

“Because I needed to know where that tent was today,” he finally gets.

Bucky ponders that as they winde their way somewhere. There’s more questions streaking through his brain than he could possibly hope to ask, or get answers for, but two keep bothering him. “What was that tent?”

Clint pauses ahead of him, studying the paths. He flops down on his stomach and then slowly, achingly, turns until he’s on his back, spandex costume stretched obscenely across his build. There a dark curl right around his neck, and Bucky wants to get a closer look at it. He pillows his head in his arms and stares at Bucky through slit eyes. “Our way out.”

Bucky frowns. “Ain’t an answer.”

“All you’re getting for now, sweetcheeks,” Clint answers cheerfully. 

Bucky bristles at the name, but he can’t pinpoint the exact reason why. He takes to studying Clint. In the ring, he’d know his shoulders had been broad. But here, in this narrow space he can see how well muscles Clint is. Thick biceps, narrow waist but thick thighs. Sharp calves. 

“Stop staring, Darlin’” Clint says with a smirk, “or I’ll expect a drink outta ya.”

Bucky ignores that, and Clint huffs. “Where are we?” He asks instead. 

“Ventilation system,” Clint answers automatically. 

Bucky frowns. 

Clint grins, “Yes, it’s floor level. Yes, it’s made of wood. Before you ask, yes, it changes daily.” 

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Stop that. And maybe try to sound less enthusiastic while you’re at it.”

Clint shrugs, “Stop what?”

Bucky waves his metal hand vaguely. 

Clint snorts at home and waves right back. “Words, you frozen caveman.”

“That!” Bucky says, aggravation crawling under his skin. “That… knowing me thing!” He looks down, picks aimlessly at a spot on his leg. “Not even Steve coulda guessed some of that.”

Clint goes quiet for so long Bucky has to look up to see if the asshole fell asleep. 

It’s dark in the wooden vents, but not so dark that memory smeared blue eyes are blotted out. “I’m sorry, Bucky,” Clint says gravely. “I really am.”

Bucky gets the sense they aren’t moving anytime soon, so he backs up, crawls away from the desperation bleeding from Clint and curls up as much as he can in this hellish nightmare. He hears Clint shuffling around, but when the other man speaks, it’s from his own area. “Change happens soon, and then I’ll find our way… somewhere safe. Ish.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - Husky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 7 to follow within the hour

Bucky wakes with a start, confused and disoriented. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He doesn’t even know quite how it happened. Now though, he is awake and he is sore, stiff, his shoulder throbbing and creaking. “Clint,” he groans. His voice comes out husky, dry. He needs water. 

Clint, golden even in the shadows like the  _ monster _ he is, doesn’t move. Bucky grabs his ankle, slender and sharp in his palm, and gives it a good shake, then tugs. “Clint!”

Clint wakes slowly, arches his hips up like a damn cat and stretches. Things pop, his torse does this weird rolling thing, and then he eyes Bucky who’s been watching the whole time. 

“Buy guy dinner first, Buckaroo,” Clint says, voice still draped in sleep.

“Be easier if I just brought food home,” Bucky answers easy, natural. He frowns, unsure of where the response came from, why it slipped out. 

Clint leans up on his elbows, something like hope burning in summer blue eyes. “Buy me chocolate and I’ll consider a private show, darlin’,” he answers, voice dropped low and eyes expectant. Bucky kinda wants to kiss the smirk off his face.

Instead, he asks, “How long ‘till we can get outta these vents?” 

Clint looks at him a moment longer, glances down to where Bucky’s hand still rest on his ankle, thumb casually stroking, then he lets his head hit the wood hard enough that Bucky’s head hurts. 

“Gotta wait,” he grunts.

“Till,” Bucky demands.

Clint sighs, “Punctuation, love. But we wait ‘till it begins.” 

Bucky growls, because that’s no kind of answer, but Clint just closes his eyes and does his weirs caterpillar crawl until his on his side, turned away from Bucky as much as he can in this confined space. 

Bucky’s about to call him out on his pouting, when he catches a strange, plasticky shiny purple glint beneath his golden curls. 

For a split second, sunlight filters through a thick glass window, summer dust caught in the rays. All he can see through the glass is trees, all he can hear is singing, all he can smell is bacon frying. He reaches down, rough hewn pine table to his left and grabs purple hearing aids. 

He wants to stay here, in this warm, dusty dream. 

But then the wood is shifting beneath his fingers, god-awful wailing, screaming,  _ screeching _ , sounds as it warps, twist,  _ bends. _

Thick and scarred fingers wrap around his wrist and tug, ripping him from the fantasy and he chokes out a wet noise he refuses to acknowledge. 

“C’mon, love, don’t lose me.”

Clint crawls ahead, quick and nimble, all cramped up like a rodent.

That too, feels familiar, but in a far less pleasant way. 

“Buck. Focus, and stop staring at my ass. Jesus Christ you’re the horniest non-horny man I ever met,” Clint snaps, not even looking back. 

“Just protecting my investments,” Bucky growls right back, sleep husk long since gone from his voice. 

He hates this place, and the tricks it's playing on his mind. On Clint’s, whose gone white and is staring and Bucky with the horror of one seeing a ghost they want to keep, but must exorcise. 

He's so busy staring at Bucky he doesn't even see the whole opening beneath him until he's falling, and Bucky instinctively falls after him.


	7. Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 7 - Enchanted

They fall for what feels like ages, and then land softly in a field of vibrant purple flowers. Bucky sniffs, lilac all around him but not woven with the soursweet. Behind him he can almost hear Clint, frantic and desperate and pleading. 

“No, darlin’, please,” Clint says. 

Bucky turns to him, trying to focus on the tears from stained blue eyes. “It’s nice, babydoll,” he says gently. “Can you hear the song?” 

And yes, there is, now that he thinks about it, a soft melody. Sounds like the toons Becka and Darleen used to croon to him, and slow and syrupy, sweet and achy. “C’mon, Clint,” Bucky says, suddenly relaxed. “Let’s just, a moment? Yeah? C’mere.” He lays back, skin tingly and warm and holds an arm out.

“No!” Clint practically screams. He throws himself at Bucky, pulling him, pushing him. Manhandling him into a sitting position. “No, Bucky. Don’t.” 

“But Clint, it’s” Bucky pauses, licks his dry lips searching for a word. “It’s so enchanting though, so peaceful.”

He feels Clint’s tears hit his cheek. “So is the cabin, so is Bitchcakes.” 

Bucky frowns, as a mange thing with mismatched eyes and lopsided ears flits through his memories. As he remembers a cabin that always smelled the right kind of damp. 

“Please,” Clint is begging. “Don’t go again.” 

Bucky aches for this man weeping above him. He’s beautiful. “Anyone ever tell ya, you look like an angel?” He asks. 

Clint looks at him. “Sometimes you tell me I look like Lucifer.” 

It seems plausible, Clint being too pretty even for heaven. Bucky traces a thumb over plush lips. “Don’t be sad, my tragic Lucifer,” he whispers. 

“Don’t do this to me, don’t get my hopes up and vanish,” Clint snarls. He looks, vicious. Murderous. It drags Bucky from the soft dreams.

“What are we waiting for, again?” he asks. “God, I’m so  _ thirsty. _ ”

Like he wished it, he notices a fountain. 

Clint slaps him though, hard. “No. You can’t drink from here. Not yet.” 

Bucky whines, but he’s so relaxed he can’t make himself move. 

“Fine,” Clint grunts. “ _ Fine _ .” He hauls Bucky up, over his shoulder like he’s potatoes. He probably weighs enough. Clint grunts, stumbles a moment before figuring out the balance and he begins a slow trek. 

Bucky’s actually kind of olay with this, because  _ beautiful, round, ass right in face _ . He pants it gently, and it earns him a sharp swat on his own ass that makes him giggle, which turns into laughter. 

“Jesus fuck,” Clint groans. “Be  _ still _ .”

There’s enough panic in his voice, the kind Steve gets when Tony’s been in the workshop to long, and it crawls into Bucky’s bones and weighs him down. “Clint, ‘m so thirsty.” His mouth is sandpaper. 

“I know,” Clint says. “I know. Soon.”

Clint is moving slowly, feet unsteady and when Bucky looks at the ground, the flowers are gone even though he can still smell their perfume. All around them, murky water sludges, and it’s dark and viscous, but he’s  _ so thirsty. _

He can almost reach it, fingers stretched down. 

“Almost there,” Clint says. 

“Where?” Bucky groans. 

“Out.”

Bucky’s fingers touch the surface of the water, and despite the look, it’s cool. Like a spring.    
“Please, Buck, hold out just a little longer.” 

Bucky eyes the drops on his fingers.

He can be good. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 8 - Frail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hate the word frail, tbh

Bucky is good.

He trails his fingers through murky, silky water, watches drop after drop fall and bounces on the shoulder of a man he half remembers, but he doesn’t drink. He’s so thirsty. 

Clint huffs. 

No, he doesn’t huff, he  _ pants _ .

“Put me down,” Bucky demands. 

“Not ‘till it’s safe,” Clint snarls. 

Bucky begins to struggle, the lullaby fades from his ears and all he can smell is Clint, exasperated and sweaty and desperate. “Put me down.”

He kicks, gets a good hit into Clint’s ribs and they both go down, sludge spilling over them. Bucky clenches his teeth, bites his cheeks not to lick his lips. 

He reaches for Clint’s wrist and he’s shocked. “You’re so frail,” he hisses. “I-” 

It’s true. Gone are the broad shoulders and the smirk and the thighs. Clint looks hollow, guant, dark circles and bones. 

“I told you, darlin’, they cut my food rations.” 

Bucky frowns, “But that was-” 

Clint waves a hand, “Shit, I always forget this part.” He shifts, makes it so he’s grabbing Bucky’s wrist and tugs. “Look, explanations and breakdowns after we get out of the magic flower swamp.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but the look he gets, the sheer exhaustion in Clint’s eyes shuts him up. 

Clint stands, carefully wipes off his face, then Buckys. His hands are still warm, still calloused, still gentle.

“Almost,” he says, answering Bucky’s unasked question. 

Clint was right. It only takes a few moments for them to break through the edge of the swamp. The bank is made of what looks like glass, painted in deep and rich earth tones. When Bucky runs a finger over it, it feels like wood. “This place-”

“Curse,” Clint says gently. “Nothing is what it seems and time is a lie.” 

Bucky shakes his head, and he’s surprised when his hair shifts about his shoulders. He’d just trimmed it before they made it to the Circus. 

He’s thirsty, and he wants to go home. “I don’t like this, Clint. Let me go.” 

Clint smiles at him, a weak twitch of the left side of his mouth. “I told you babe, I can’t. Not ‘till it begins.”

“Until what begins,” Bucky demands.

“Oh, don’t you see? Bucky?” Clint asks. He’s gone frantic, pacing around and flapping his too-thin wrist. One is still damaged fingers still green and yellow, making a horrible creaking noise. “The show. You keep leaving before it begins. I can’t leave when you do that.”

“But I can?” Bucky asks slowly. “I can get out without waiting.”

Clint opens his mouth, then shuts it. He sucks in a breath. “Yeah, yeah you can. You always do.” 

“Why,” Bucky says. He’s feeling twitchy, his shoulder screaming and his metal arm weighing heavy.

“Because how else does the loop stay intact?” Clint mumbles. He sits on the ground, hard. He’s twirling something in his hand, the green-yellow one, something that makes Bucky sad-happy. “Just drink the water, when you’re ready,” Clint adds with resignation. 

“If I stay?” Bucky asks quietly.

Clint flips the thing, a small little locket. “The the big finish begins and maybe I get home.”

Bucky weighs the options in his head, then holds out his hand. “I wanna see it,” he demands. 

Clint eyes him, but he hands the locket over. “This is it, the beginning of the reset.”

Bucky ignores him, opening the thing. It’s his face, younger, or maybe less troubled, hair twisted into a sloppy bun and his nose slightly sunburned. He looks at the other side, even though he already knows what he’ll see. He sits, hard, tears streaking down his face. It hurts, it hurts more than anything he’s ever felt, and he screams with it. 

“Drink.” Clint tells him gently, hands cupped with the muddy water. “Drink and the pain goes away. You go away.”


	9. Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 9 - Swing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter is short

Sunlight filters through orange and gold leaves, dust caught in the rays. It’s cool, cool enough for Bucky’s sweater not to be out of place, and the air smells crisp. Dorabella laughs, high and excited as he pushes her on the crooked swing. “Daddy is gonna fix this,” he says to her. 

“Eat shit,” Clint laughs in his ear. He’s holding a thermos in one hand and three mugs in the other. 

“Language,” Dorabella chirps. 

Both of them sigh. “Someone has been spending too much time with their Uncle Steve,” Clint chides. 

Dorabella just smiles up at them, thick curls poofing in the cool air and smile wide. “Papa,” she says, reaching for Bucky. He grabs her, inhaling the cocoa butter smell. 

“Yes, little one?” He asks.    
“Are you going to stay?” Her brown eyes are intense. 

Bucky frowns, “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I stay?” 

Dorabella shrugs, tugging at his beard. “If you stay, and you don’t remember, you stay forever.” 

The world tilts, sour sweet lilac haze and purple fogging his vision. Bucky stares at her. “Remember what?”

Dorabella tugs his beard harder, “If you don’t remember me, and daddy, and the cabin.” 

Bucky feels panic curl around his heart, thorny tendrils that climb up his throat and weaken his knees. “This isn’t funny, Dorabella. How could I ever forget you guys? Or this place?”

Large brown eyes, like sun soaked wood, stare at him. “Papa?” She asks, timid and low. “Where is Bitchface?”

There’s a horrible, screeching wail, and Dorabella begins to fade from his view. Bucky screams, or he thinks he does, but he can’t hear it, as he tries to claw his way through a sludge that’s like poisoned purple, reaching for his daughter, reaching for the child that fell into their lives. 

“Dorabella!”

But she is gone, and all that he sees is a field of poisoned bouquets, and a man so frail Bucky’s afraid it’s already too late. 


	10. Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 10 - Pattern

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes yes, i got behind, im catching up and hoping to stay caught up?? sorry!

Bucky slams back into the world of the soursweet lilac, but what he slams into is something new entirely. It hurts, trying to breath. Hurts like his lungs are constricting in his chest, like the air is made of metal shavings and mud and- a million other things he couldn’t even pretend to name. 

There’s a hand, heavy and warm and familiar in the worst possible way, tracing inexplicable patterns in his back, and he wants to lean away from it.

He leans right into it, away from the horrible noise Away from his screaming sobs shoved out of compressed lungs drowning in metal and mud. 

“She found you, then?” Clint asks gently. 

Bucky can’t answer, can barely hear the question through his grief. “She was so young, when we left. And now-”

Small parts, little flickers like fading photographs, the baby with its oaky skin showing up. Clint at his back, and the -

“How,” he croaks out. And goddamned, but he’s still so thirsty. He grabs the hand still tracing patterns into his back, and he’s reminded again of how frail Clint is here. “How are we, where are we?”

Clint shrugs, and Bucky winces. It looks like it took so much effort, so much energy, he aches for this strange man he knows. 

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, breakdown later. C’mon, up you go.”

Clint nods, but he barely moves. Bucky tugs at his shoulders, and for a moment he stands. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to stand. 

He collapses back to the ground, the solid, grassy thing that should be mud and swamp. 

Bucky frowns, trying to calculate just how long he’s been in this strange place. He can’t but he knows it's not nearly as long as Clint. He’s not nearly as weak. “Fine.”

He reaches down and hooks his arms under Clint. It’s really down to his metal arm, his enhanced strength and healing, he thinks, that he’s able to do this. Able to lift him, carry him bridal style. 

“Close to your heart,” Clint mumbles. 

More picture flares, suits in gunmetal with the most delicate purple detailed. A cabin, hand built, and Bucky, holding Clint, cradling him next to his heart. 

“How do I help you?” Bucky asks, voice ragged with desperation. 

“It’s close to reset,” Clint breaths out. “Big reset, not vents.” He stars clawing at Bucky, the strange and delicate designs he scratched onto Bucky’s back burning with the right kind of warmth. “Oh God, please Bucky, not again.” Bucky looks down and Clint is weeping. 

“Hey no, it’s okay! I’m right here,” Bucky says. 

It only makes Clint sob hard, makes his nails dig into Bucky’s neck, his chest. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. I won’t,” he inhales, but it sounds more like he’s choking. “Bucky. I won’t make it again. Not on my own.”

He shakes so hard, Bucky stumbles. He can’t hold Clint, can’t carry him. He sinks into the grass, the sharp blades at his feet, beneath him, and he holds Clint. Rocks him like he did a baby with fever, and he whispers into his ear. “I’m right here, love. ‘M right here ‘n ‘m not going anywhere okay. Not leaving you. Not ever again.”

He doesn’t know if he’s lying or not, but he knows he wants to mean it, even as the sky, the ceiling, goes grey about them, as the grass fades and they’re left in some kind of abyss.


	11. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 11 - Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more to catch up!

They sit in the abyss for a long time. Or maybe it’s not long. Maybe it just feels that way. Bucky cradles Clint in his arms, and he closes his eyes and he thinks of the cabin. Of Dorabella in ridiculously bright yellow rain boots. Of how much he and Clint despised them, but how she insisted. She’d seen it in a book, or an advert or something. And even when it snowed, when they begged her to put on actual boots, she’d wailed, loud and demanding.

Bitchface had glared at them, so judgmental and demeaning, they’d caved. Dorabella, bundled up in a dark coat, and thick wool pants, and three pairs of socks, and those ridiculous yellow boots. 

He’s not sure when he started talking, when Clint had sat up beside him, but they share the memories. “The snow angels, the ones she called _ warriors _,” Clint laughs, “you’d get so mad cause the wings were always wonky on yours.”

“You try making them with a metal arm,” Bucky grouses. 

“Is she,” Clint asks, “is she out there? Is she okay?” 

Bucky frowns, trying to remember. “I don’t know what’s out there, Clint. All I remember, over and over and over, is the tower. Steve and Tony, and the nightmares. Coming to the circus, seeing you. Over and over it feels like.” 

Clint nods beside him. “That’s, maybe that’s good.” He frowns getting that, “Aw, I’m definitely not thinking big things” look and he’s going to lie about whatever he’s thinking, so Bucky doesn’t even ask.

Clint’s got this frown on his face, eyebrows all tucked together, and Bucky reaches out to smooth them. 

Clint flinches away, guilt scarred across his face. 

“How many times?” Bucky demands in horror. “How many times have you lived through these moments?” 

Clint shrugs. 

“Don’t do that to me, Clint. Don’t brush this off. Not now, not with me.” Bucky knows he doesn’t really have much right to be so furious, but he is. He’s so angry, so scared, and Clint. “Christ, babe. How _ many?” _

“I lost count around 80,” Clint finally whispers. “You always remember for a moment. But then you forget again. I can’t figure out why. Why you want to forget us, the life we built. I keep thinking, ‘maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s just another trick.’ But then we get here, and you do that, smooth my ‘brows, and I know it's you. And then you forget.”

“How come you never forget?” Bucky snarls. 

“I never get the choice, Bucky. That’s part of the game,” Clint shrugs. 

He looks better, healthier. He doesn’t look like skin draped bones, doesn’t look one breath from fainting. 

Bucky isn’t thirsty. “Why do I forget?” he demands. “Why do I always choose to forget?”

Clint sighs, picking at the fog around them. “You say it’s because it’s not time. And every time I ask how you know, reset happens.”

“Not this time,” Bucky decides. “I don’t care who is playing, or what the game is. I’m not forgetting you, and I’m not leaving you. Not this time.” He swears it, catches Clint’s face in his hands and tries to press it into his mind. 

Clint smiles, all sad and hopeful. “Aw darlin’, I really fuckin’ hope you mean it this time.” His hands are soft, gentle, warm on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky turns, presses his lips to the bow-string scars. 

“Not this time,” he whispers again, more to himself. A reminder. A vow.


	12. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 - Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy (ish) moment!

The abyss, for all it’s emptiness, get surprisingly warm. “Recalibration,” Clint mutters, mostly to himself. He strips off his shirt, his boots, his pants, leaving him in grey boxers and holey socks. 

Bucky sucks in a breath, fingers skitting along Clint’s back. The ink is beautiful, spectacular. 

“When did you get this?” He gasps. “Why did you get this?” 

Clint twist, catching glimpses of the scales and the lines on his back.

“Is that the fucking Harry Potter dragon? The one from the vaults?” Bucky says.

Clint gives him a sheepish look. “Well, yeah. Sort of.”

Bucky eyes him. “That’s an almost perfect rendering of the movie dragon, babe, why do you have that down your back and across your ribs?”

Clint just shrugs, neck and cheeks and shoulders going red. He turns away, like there’s anywhere to hide in the abyss but Bucky grabs his wrist with his metal fingers. He’s gentle, so the bone doesn’t groan. “You know you can trust me, can tell me anything,” he says quietly. 

“Can I?” Clint questions. He looks guilty as soon as he asks it, but it’s a valid question. 

“I told you, I won’t forget this time.”

Clint eyes him, searching, wary, frightened. He speaks, slowly, hopefully. “You used to read it to her, to Dorabella all the time. She couldn’t sleep. She never could. You started when she was a baby.”

“Yeah,” Bucky remembers. “You always said it was dumb, that she couldn’t possibly understand.”

“I was right, love,” Clint snorts. “But then she got older, and you kept reading. And you bought the movies and you’d stay up too late with her when she’d had a bad day, or she was sick, or you just wanted to spend time with her.” 

“You’d come home, and scoff at us, but then you’d make popcorn and drown it in candy, and snuggle up with us,” Bucky adds gently. “But it still doesn’t explain why you have the dragon on your back.”

“Because, darlin’-” Clint closes his eyes. “I was starting to forget. And when the abyss opened, all I could remember was curling up with you too, your voice reading to her, slow and steady. The stupid fucking dragon, darlin’, how scared she’d get and how she’d curl into my side, you’d wrap around us, and it was just us three fighting a dragon in the vaults. I didn’t want to forget.”

“And you didn’t,” Bucky exhales. “Clint!” He leans forward and kisses him, hard and ecstatic. “You stupid beautiful man! You didn’t forget!”

Clint looks at him dazed, and opens his mouth, but the world tilts, spins, screeches like a door needing oiling. “Aw, reset.” He grabs Bucky’s hand, squeezes too tight, eyes frantic. “Please, Bucky. Don’t forget, I can’t do this again without you!” 

Bucky squeezes back. “I won’t.” 

He shuts his eyes, holds tight to the memory that makes him happiest, and closes his mind to anything else happening beyond. 

_ They got married sort of randomly, almost out of the blue. Just them, the team. Dorabella in a pristine dress, silver with an array of flowers that looked more like falling stars.  _

_ “Darlin’ it’s not random, not with us,” Clint’s laughing, tightening Bucky’s bowtie. “Just a little unorthodox.” _

_ “We got the house, the kid, the dog. Now we’re gettin’ hitched,” Bucky sighs. “Did we have to dress up?” _

_ Clint smacks him. “Dorabella wants a dress, by god we’ll give her the dress!” _

_ “Yeah, I know,” Bucky groans, “but we coulda gotten married in boots and jeans.” _

_ Clint smiles at him, glowing and gentle. He cups Bucky’s cheek, strokes a thumb across it. “Darlin’ I’d have married you naked in the snow if it meant keeping you.” _

_ Of course Bucky kisses him then, the ridiculous sap.  _

_ Steve walks in, and he’s flushed and guilty looking, and holding a pair of Mary Janes.  _

_ Clint and Bucky both sigh, then laugh. “Yeah, let her do it, Steve.” _

-

Bucky jerks up right in an unfamiliar but comfortable cot, warm heat at his back and wind dancing across the flap of the tent. His side hurts, burns. Clint laughs behind him. 

“Listen love, you’re gonna have a helluva time explaining that one.”

Bucky looks at his ribs, angry and red, and inked with a beautiful dark skinned girl, in a silver dress and yellow rain boots. “I made it through reset!”


	13. Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 12 - Ash

Clint cups his face, kisses Bucky on the nose, forehead, his lips. Everywhere he can with their positioning. “Yeah, darlin’, yeah you did.” 

He’s crying, but Bucky doesn’t call him out on it. Mostly because he’s crying too. They stay there for a long time, cradling each other close, basking in arms around them, the breath of another. Bucky listens to Clint’s heartbeat, excited and steady, until it’s paired with his own. “How do we get out? How do we go home?” 

He feels Clint freeze beneath his hands and he frowns, cracking and eye open. “Clint?”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t, Bucky.” He’s gasping, sucking in breath like he’s been punched in the diaphragm and can’t get the air down. Shaking, breath stuttering. “Don’t know, Buck,” he wails. “I can’t-”

Bucky pushes up, until he can cradle Clint in his lap, awkwardly but firmly. “Hey. Hey, love. It’s okay.” His own breath starts shaking, his own heart pounding, but he breaths intently. “With me, okay. Like you used to for Dorabella. Like you do for me. Breath.” 

They do, for a long time. “It’s okay,” Bucky mutters. “We’ll sort it out. Together. That’s how we work best, innit. We’ll get outta here, and find our cabin, and our dog, and our little girl.”

By the time Clint’s mostly back to normal, the sky outside, (is it really outside? Bucky wonders) has faded to something almost resembling evening.

They drift, and routine settles. 

Bucky doesn’t perform, not like Clint does. Clint, in his spandex suit, with its purple stitching. Clint, up so high on narrow strings without a net, with arrows dipped in flames. It makes Bucky so damn nervous, watching his husband. Clint always takes out his hearing aides, and that worries Bucky even more. 

He’s working some metal in his hands, fixing the bars of a cage that’s always empty. “I’m only saying, what if I need to warn you ‘bout something?” 

Clint collapses on the cot next to him, knocking some of the bars into the ash on the floor. “Flashlights and sign language, Buckarooni!”

Bucky slings the bar in his hand to the floor. “This isn’t a goddamned joke! You’re up there, alone and no safety net, and you take away the one thing that might save your life!”

Clint turns away from him, and Bucky immediately begins to knead the knots in his shoulders and neck. “That’s not how it works, Buck, and you know it.”

“I hate this place,” Bucky hisses. 

The Circus, it’s illogical. Like it’s contained inside of a glass, like their puppets rewound each day. No one ever shows up to watch. As far as Bucky can tell, they’re the only ones even there. 

It can’t be true, not when food shows up for them, with clean water and fresh linens. Not when there’s always something for Bucky to fix or clean, for Clint to perform. 

“What do they even want with us?” Bucky growls. 

Clint shrugs. “I stopped asking a long time ago,” he says quietly, picking at their blanket. “You shouldn’t say things out loud. They’ll…” Clint tugs harder, until the blanket rips. “I asked too many questions, and you stopped coming for a while.” 

Bucky holds him close, holds him tight, and he doesn’t say anything out loud, but he’s going to solve this. Going to burn the fucking Circus into the ground, and bath in the ashes, like the poles he’s abandoned on the floor. 


	14. Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 14 - Overgrown

Day in and day out, the pattern goes on. Bucky cleans things that don’t really need to be cleaned. Clint performs a show in front of empty stands. They eat, enjoy berries in the morning and crusty breads and fragrant cheeses. Smoked meats, sugared fruits.

It’s comfortable. The lull of routine, of fair weather, skys drenched in billowy clouds and the breeze bearing the promise of future rains. 

Easy then, to forget anything outside of the routine. To wake up in a cot built for one, wrapped around another and think  _ this is all I’ve ever wanted, _ and to go to bed, wrapped in those arms, content.

So easy, to fall into. 

So easy.

Bucky wakes, and Clint is already awake. Already stretching, bones groaning and creaking and snapping into place. He smiles, feeling lazy as he props his head on an elbow and watches. 

“Darlin’ are you enjoying the show?” Clint snorts. He’s stripped of the linen sleep shirt, the rough pants, and is trading them for the tight fighting solid spandex he wears to practice in. 

“You’d be too, if you could see my view,” Bucky grins. And he means it, with every fiber of his being, because Clint? Belongs in a damn museum. 

Clint points at him, still struggling to get the left hearing aid in, “You’re a very odd ace, Bucky. Stop ogling me and help.”

Bucky shrugs. “Lots of people stare at David’s goodies without getting off to it. Appreciating the view is a unique experience that doesn’t require interaction.”

He doesn’t help, because watching Clint absolutely refuse to be a normal human and focus on one task while he’s hopping around in his spandex is a gift from heaven Bucky has zero intention of returning. 

Until Clint slips on a pole Bucky forgot about and lands in a tangle of spandex and frustration against his chest. Bucky holds him, helps him wrangle the costume up his shoulders, fingers briefly trailing over a dragon that feels like ash and snow and sparks memories Bucky can’t quite touch, and zips it, then lets him sort his hearing aide.

Clint snorts into Bucky’s chest, fingers tickling up his side, ghosting over the little girl scarred there. 

“Don’t go,” Bucky whispers. “Certainly we can take one day to just rest here. Lay about, enjoy each other’s company.” 

Clint smiles, presses his lips to Bucky’s jaw. He frowns at the hair growing there, tugging gently at the beard. “You need to trim this.” 

“Do it for me,” Bucky challenges. 

Clint arches a brow, sharp and judgey, and asks, “You trust me near those lips with sharp objects?”

“No,” Bucky snorts. “You might be amazing on a tightrope with arrows, but you’re a menace in any other situation. But,” he says, catching Clint’s hand in his own. “If you injure me, you’ll have to stay here and nurse me.” He’s grinning lecherously and Clint laughs. 

He doesn’t stand up though, or pull himself from Bucky’s arms. Instead he shifts, trying to bury himself in the warmth. “It’s a like a dream, sometimes, isn’t it Buck?” 

Bucky shifts, wraps him tightly and closes his eyes. “Or a really gentle nightmare,” he says quietly. But Clint is warm against him, already half asleep. 

Outside, Bucky knows the vines on the cages are overgrown. There’s rot in the bleachers that are never full, and a thousand empty tents that light up, that are filled with laughter and music but lack warmth. 

Those are problems for tomorrow, and he almost hopes tomorrow never fucking comes. 


	15. Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 15 - Legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... idek frens. it short. it late....

“I’ll have you know, babe,” Clint snarls, “I am a fucking  _ legend  _ under the high top!”

Bucky snorts out a laugh, “Yeah, legendary wuss!”

Clint makes some kind of wounded animal noise, half way between snarling at Bucky and whining. “It’s cold!”

Bucky shrugs. The truth is, it’s been cold for a while. The whole place has gone quiet, all heat blown away in the windstorm that shredded the tent a few weeks, months…

A while ago. 

Clint sways on the rope above him, chucks something at Bucky’s head. An arrowhead. “Seriously? You goad me up here naked, and don’t even bother to watch my stunt?”

Bucky gives him a small grin. “Go on Legend, gimme a show.”

Clint wiggles his ass at Bucky, swaying on the rope enough to make Bucky’s stomach lurch. “Hey asshole! Be careful up there!”

Clint throws his hands up, “You want me to do a cool stunt or you want me to be careful?”

Bucky scowls at him, and Clint leers down. He bounces on the rope a little, so Bucky can hear it thwaping in the wind. He lifts a hand, like he’s going to grab Clint.

Like he’s not too far below him.

Clint bounces again, then jumps until he’s airborne. He does some kind of twist, and lands with his left foot floating free. He jumps again, with his arrow ready and spins, letting it loose.

Bucky doesn’t bother to watch the arrow, to busy worrying about Clint. 

Like the show off he is, Clint continues to bounce arrow, arrows whistling through the air, landing on the rope like it’s nothing. At one point, he uses his bow to leverage himself onto a higher landing, and Bucky bites his teeth hard enough his jaw cracks. 

Slowly, almost lazily, Clint leaps higher and higher, until he’s scaling the supports of a tent. Bucky watches as Clint slinks down onto his belly, and then he disappears from sight.

Even though Bucky knew this would happen, he can’t help the fear sharpening in his gut. 

Clint’s going to be gone a while, he knows. 

It’s Bucky’s turn to raid one of the tents for food and supplies. He picks one far from their own, and sets off. As expected, as soon as he’s within ear shot the tent light’s up and low murmurs sound. Nothing distinguishable, and occasionally accompanied by a loud burst of laughter. The closer he gets, the more noises sound. Utensils scraping metal plates, the scuffing of chairs on dirty floors. Sometimes there’s the sound of a sewing machine, or a small music box. 

This one is mostly just glass bottles and coins.

As soon as Bucky enters the tent, the lights go out and the sound stops. 

Bucky tacks the flap up, letting in the dismal grey sunlight. Everything is covered in dust. It smells like sweat. But this place, Bucky whistles low and excited. 

It’ll take him all day to cart the cans of food and packets of dried meats back to his tent. He’d leave some of it, if tents weren’t know to move about during the night. As it is, he kicks open a trunk and almost weeps at the piles of thick, wooly clothing. 

Clint’s going to be so damn excited when he returns.


End file.
